


Topical Tropical Tempest

by Thonkus



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Also while a massive tropical storm was happening so MAYBE i was projecting a lil, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Comfort No Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Humanstuck, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, It's not explicit davekat but you and i both know it is, M/M, Panic, Roommates, Storms, Swearing, Thunderstorms, Vaguely-Human AU, look im just a karkat kinnie with needs fuck off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:35:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27265831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thonkus/pseuds/Thonkus
Summary: Your name is Karkat Vantas, and the fucking weather is going to be the death of you.Or, wherein I wrote during an incredibly violent thunderstorm, and projected onto Vantas heavily.
Relationships: Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas, DaveKat
Comments: 1
Kudos: 75





	Topical Tropical Tempest

Your name is Karkat Vantas.

The world is out to get you; You’re completely convinced.  
  


Now, normally, this kind of outrageous, bursting statement of yours would happen over something stupidly small. Your friend John’s abhorrent insistence in film taste, people who don’t wipe off the butter knife before tossing it in the sink. Small things like that, which inevitably lead to a complete overreaction, and an eventual lesson learned to _‘Be More Patient’_ and _‘Take A Fucking Breather’_  
  
Not this time, though. There will be no patience, and there will be no lessons learned, because the world is completely and utterly out to get you.  
  
Why _else_ would you be curled in on yourself, at some 5:00 AM adjacent hour, shaking like a pathetic stupid leaf in complete darkness? You bet you wouldn’t even be a fun and crunchy leaf. You’d just be a wet and soggy excuse. Especially with all this fucking rain outside.  
  
A clap of thunder roars out, and you think you give a cry when it does. You’ve periodically slung curses out to your window, hoping the storm can comprehend you and kindly fuck off. It hasn’t worked for the past two hours, ever since the power went out, and you doubt it’s going to start working anytime soon.  
  
You hate storms. You hate your life.  
  
When the next bout of thunder rages, you try to do that thing when you count the seconds between the thunder and lightning, thusly deciphering how far away the storm is, or something. You don’t remember where you learned that, but you clearly didn’t retain well in your brain, because you don’t remember what any of it means. You still try it, though. It’s not like you can see any lightning right now, anyways.  
  
Shit, why is the wind _so loud?!_ You preoccupy yourself with the weather app just about every 10 seconds, and it’s literally just a tropical storm. No tornado warnings, no floods. Just a fucking storm. Yet the wind screams and wails like a banshee.  
  
You would listen to music, but you’ll be damned if you take your attention away from the obvious peril you’re so clearly in. You can’t ever shake the worry that you’ll get distracted, and suddenly apartment windows are shattering; the world ending right before your eyes. You’ve always been like this, for as long as you can remember. Every storm in your life has been perceived as a fucking cataclysmic event. Usually spent with tears pricking your eyes, hands over your ears in a desperate attempt to drown out the noise, yet be alert in case of an emergency. The tradition proves to stand the test of time tonight.

The only light source you would have is your phone flashlight, but you turned that off to save battery power, lest you need to call… Someone, you guess? You’re not sure why you would need to call someone now that you think about it, or what they would even do, but you’re still not wasting a single battery percentage, just in case. Sirens cry out distantly, which only causes the panic to rise further in your chest, boiling over at the surface. You guess there must be a lightning-struck fire somewhere. You can only imagine your own apartment building being next.

So, all in all, you’re curled with your knees to your chin, in the complete and utter darkness, with no sound to be your company except the wind, thunder, and sirens, which are all actively terrifying you.  
  
  
You’re doing great. This is fine.  
  
Your weather app predicts it’ll all die down by 10:00 in the morning.  
  
You’ve just got a few more hours to go.  
  
  
  
**_“-FUCK!”_**

A somehow-larger-than-ever, gargantuan fucking _boom_ shakes you to your core. You’re shocked your windows didn’t shatter with the noise. Sheer terror encompasses you, for the umpteenth time. You need to get out of here, to safety, but you’re unfortunately safest right where you are. You doubt your legs could even move if you tried. Fear practically paralyzes you to the spot.

Ah, shit, the tears are back. You try to tightly swallow them, but it doesn’t do much to help your situation. Why? Why is everything so fucking loud?! You hate this. You’re going to die. You’re-  
  
  


“Karkat?”

  
  
  
Your roommates voice calls to you, just loud enough to be heard. Oh, shit. Shit. You probably woke him up with your cursing. Good going, Karkat. You probably got your entire building up with that one.  
  
You have to take a deep inhale before responding, which unfortunately for you just sounds a lot like a teary sniffle. 

“Dave?” You say back, completely pretending that it’s not obvious the amount of panic you’re in. The tremor in your voice doesn’t help you at all. You cover your face in your hands, even though he cant see you any.  
  
  
  
You think he’s just stood in your doorway, and you don’t hear his footsteps leaving, so you can imagine him in your minds eye, standing there awkwardly. Probably has his one eyebrow raised like he does when he thinks you’re being weird. You _are_ being weird. This _is_ weird. He speaks up again, after a few beats.

“Are you…like, okay?”

  
  
You'd almost say you have it in you to give a hollow, bitter laugh. And you do. Although, as your luck would have it, another growl of thunder assaults your ears and chest, turning it into a gasp of fear. Ah, lovely. Now you have shame to wallow in, added to your immense amount of stress. This is the worst.  
  
Strider turns on his phone flashlight suddenly, although it’s angled down, and not directly at you like you’re a rabid raccoon beneath his car. It does a good job to illuminate your small space, and pitiful demeanor, still. You cant see yourself, but If you could guess what Dave saw, it’d likely be a tear-stained wreck of a college student, hugging his knees for dear life. In fact you’re almost positive thats what he sees, because when you snap your eyes over to him, instead of your vigilant window watch (Why were you even looking at that? Your blinds are closed), his eyes fill to the brim with an emotion you scarcely see. Mostly because he’s usually wearing sunglasses, but a fair bit also because you never really see him worried.  
  
Another squall of wind instantly whips your attention back to the window. You feebly hope that Dave is as stupid as he acts, and is fully unaware of what the issue is with you. You know thats not true, though. He’s accidentally (and maybe unwillingly) proved himself to be genuinely observant and smart to you on multiple occasions long past. You know you’re just kidding yourself. But you also know you’ll be fine on your own for a few more hours, so why isn’t he leaving? You have to take this into your own hands, you guess.

“Sorry, I’ll be quiet. You can go back to sleep.” Is all that you manage to say through gritted teeth. You can’t bring yourself to focus on both him and the storm much longer, or you’re going to lose it.

He stays squarely planted in the doorway, if the light from his phone is anything to go by. You afford another quick glance, and notice that he, or his dimly lit silhouette, looks almost uncertain. Gently rocking back and forth on his feet, and running his fingers up along his phone case nervously. You've seen his shitty confident schtick waver, but never at a time like this.

  
At the same time, you both speak, with different levels of urgency.

“I mean it, you can go-“

“Do you want me to come over there-?”

  
  
Both of your sentences sort of fizzle out at the end, rapidly losing steam. Did he just say what you think he said? Blinking in surprise, you offer him a scoff. 

“Strider, I’m fine. I don’t need you coddling me like I’m some fucking child.”

  
  
He looks like he doesn’t believe you. Which you guess is fair, because your jaw is set tight as fuck, and your eyes squeeze shut every time a breeze so much as rustles a tree branch outside.

“I don’t need your help,” you assure him.

“Do you want it?” he retaliates.

His words don’t feel like a slap in the face, but they do leave you at a loss. You just told him you didn’t need him here, what you _want_ isn’t relevant right now. How fucking stupid is he, practically accusing you like that? You open and close your mouth for a bit, unsure what to say, or how to convince him that you’re fine. You’ve gotten through every storm in your life by yourself, you can handle one more, no matter how much it feels like you cant breathe. Besides, being roommates, you’ve already seen far too much of each other, that you’re sure you both would typically not display to most. You don’t need to add _‘Being A Pussy About Weather’_ to your list.

  
  
Strider then proves to be, in fact, as stupid as he acts, in the worst way possible. He takes your silence as an affirmative response.  
  
  
Before you can protest, he pads his socked feet over to your bed. You catch yourself holding your breath, and with an almost frightening amount of delicacy, he sits next to you. His added weight shifts the dip in the mattress; his long legs rest awkwardly out in front of him. Dave Strider - your roommate -is sat next to your trembling figure. Your less-than spacious twin size mattress means that his right thigh and knee brush and press against your own, and his nightly dress of boxers and a hoodie means it's all bare skin against yours. His phone light is still on, although it rests lazily in his hand, softly lighting the strangely intimate scene he’s created.  
  
If he senses how tense you are, he doesn’t say anything. He instead follows your gaze to the covered window, and sits in silence. Is this it? Is he going to just sit there until the morning comes? You don’t expect him to stay that long, of course, but he seems to be planted in his position with such surely misplaced confidence that you almost gape at him. Your eyes angrily roam his form, thoroughly appalled. He rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward, hands loosely playing with the hem of his hoodie. His shades are off, which makes sense, but doesn’t help you shake the foreign feeling.  
  
He does realize how awkward this is going to be when he leaves, right? When you have to see him in the morning at breakfast, and probably every breakfast after that. He has to realize how awful this is, but nothing about his demeanor tells you that. He looks almost relaxed, which makes you furious for a million different reasons, but mostly, you guess, because you’re anything but.  
  
  
He’s just going to fucking sit there, you guess. Your bitter eyes slide back to the window. Wind continues to howl like a basset, thunder continues to groan and yell, and you continue to try your best to keep composure. Strider added to the equation is an entirely new element of that. Wringing your hands doesn’t stop your body from shaking, biting your lip doesn’t stop you from yelping, and Dave doesn’t stop you from losing your fucking shit.  
  
  
That being said, you’re not sure if its exactly… worse than being alone.  
  
  
The thought of that, coupled with a noise that makes the apartment creak tremendously, has you cursing loudly again, and clumsily grabbing onto the nearest thing you can in distress, which happens to be Strider's arm.  
  
  
Either from the suddenness of your outburst or the thunder, his head swings to face you, with visibly raised brow. You grabbed him with enough panicked force that you’re afraid you hurt him for a moment. A muttered _‘Sorry’_ escapes your lips, and you remove your hand from his body heat as quickly as you applied it, not daring to remove your enlarged eyes from the window.

A beat or two passes in silence. Dave Strider’s warmth provides the most uncomfortable sense of comfort possible. You’re tense, and stressed, and downright petrified, but his company is something familiar to you, at least. (Of course, never this close, physically.)

Strider doesn’t break his stare, but speaks regardless.

“D’yknow if they actually filmed that scene in _The Notebook_ during a storm?”

  
  
You almost turn to face him, before remembering that your body is flush against him, and that would leave you far too close for comfort. He’s one of the biggest movie nerds you’ve ever met, and he knows a good amount about the filming process. You know he’s just asking to distract you, but it’s an opening you take anyways.

“No, I think they just used rain machines for that. The swan scene was real, though. They had to be raised at the filming location, or some shit ”

Dave nods once, but stays silent for you to continue. You stumble into silence yourself every so often, but always pick back up to your rambling. You sit beside Dave, looking with him at the lighting dancing and spilling out from under cracks in your blinds, as you talk aimlessly. You catch him stealing peeks to you from the corner of your eye as you talk, but it doesn’t stop you.

  
You hope (and maybe even pray) that its just your brain and body being exhausted from your almost four-hours-and-counting of misery, but when the next clap of thunder booms out, you think you jump a little less;

  
When Dave Strider offers you his hand to hold, you decide not to worry about how incredibly awkward the morning will be.

* * *

  
Hell, when you wake up, with the sun beaming, and his free hand tangled in your hair, you decide to not even question it. You let your eyes draw closed, and feel yourself falling into a warm, easy rest.

**Author's Note:**

> I am too fucking tired to proofread any of this. I wrote this during hours 2-5 of a massive tropical storm in my area, and I'm running on Not Enough sleep to care, pff! That being said, I hope y'all enjoy this Oneshot, which was purely self-indulgent lmao! I hate storms with a raging passion, so it was helpful to write about it in all honesty. Thank y'all for reading! ~ Thonkus


End file.
